I recently had an extremely humbling experience, having been invited by my counselor to a healing retreat where, as it turns out, I was one of only two attendees – for the entire retreat – being poured into and prayed over by six women. Six women ministering to only two for three days. At the first I felt awkward, out of place, uncomfortable. Because who am I to have anyone give up a weekend to be used by God to speak to me? And when others have been so much more broken, battered, and bruised by the world, how could I possibly be in so dire need of healing that someone else couldn’t have benefited more from what these women were offering to cracked and broken me?

As a part of this weekend, one of the final things we were invited to do was to sit alone, in the quiet with God’s voice as worship music flowed, to work on an “art project.” Now I do love me a good art project, but it turns out this wasn’t just any project. I was asked to choose a box and follow the instructions inside to carry out the process of “kintsugi” – an art form I’ve discussed here before which uses the broken-ness of a piece of pottery as a part of its final beauty. A process designed not to hide ones flaws and imperfections, but to highlight them in gold so they become a part of the visible history of the piece.

And what God spoke to me during that time of solitude was heart-wrenching and humbling.

As I began, I unwrapped a beautiful bowl, complete, useful the way it was – one I could almost just add to my kitchen cabinet. Alongside the bowl was a bag – the instructions told me to put the bowl in the bag as I began the process of breaking the bowl – the bag was meant to be a place of safety – what represented safety to us? I knew for me the bag represented Christ, how He holds us, even as we break.

But the next step brought real tears to my eyes, as I picked up a hammer to break this beautiful bowl. How, God? Why? How can I bring destruction upon something so pure and innocent? How does He allow this to happen to us? Every one of us is broken at some point in our lives, but most often it begins in childhood, when our innocence is shattered, either all at once or slowly over time as reality and pain settle in. As tears flowed down my face with one strike of the hammer, and the bowl remained unbroken, with a beating against brick, and the bowl remained unbroken, and then one final blow with the hammer and the sound of porcelain breaking into pieces. I could feel how His heart breaks. He showed me the holes in the bag that had been torn as the bowl was stricken and broken.

“You see those holes? Your broken-ness broke me. I was wounded for your transgressions. You aren’t the only one with scars.” And my tears flowed more.

And as I looked at these broken pieces, I considered the instructions, wondering if I should break the bowl more or work with just these few pieces, this little bit of broken-ness, and here’s where Christ spoke to me personally – it doesn’t matter how broken the bowl is, whether it’s shattered or just dealing with a few broken pieces – if it’s broken, it’s in need of healing. And we’re all broken, whether in big, obviousy ways, or in small, but still real, ways. Any amount of broken-ness needs healing.

And what could this bowl, broken, unable to fill its needs, do to earn my reaching out to put it back together? Not a thing. The only aspect about it that has earned its healing is that it’s broken. The only pre-requisite to coming to Christ for healing is our being broken. This is what we all need to hear Christ speaking to us:

“Are you broken? Come to me.”

“Yes, but someone else has been broken more.”

“Are you broken? Come to me.”

“Yes, but it’s manageable. It’s just a piece or two.”

“Are you broken? Come to me.”

“Yes, but the pieces are so many and so scattered. There’s nothing that can be done.”

“Are you broken? Come to me.”

“Yes, but it’s my fault. The things I’ve done. The choices I’ve made. They broke me.”

“Are you broken? Come to me.”

“Yes, but I was never very pretty to begin with. I was mis-shapen, ordinary, ugly. Even without the scars.”

“Are you broken? Come to me.”

“Yes, but I don’t deserve to be whole. I don’t deserve to be used.”

“Are you broken? Come to me.”

“Yes, but . . .”

“But are you broken?”

And he puts it back together. He doesn’t call us to hide where we’ve been healed, but to use our gilded scars to bring others to the one that puts us back together. It doesn’t matter how we broke or what we’ve been broken by. It doesn’t matter how many pieces we’re in or if there are pieces that are better left out when we’re put back together. It doesn’t matter if we can be used as we were or now have a new purpose to fill. All that matters is that we are broken and we need healing. And by his stripes, we are healed.